


still a little bit of your taste in my mouth

by hamiltrashed



Series: flooded my senses [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birthday Presents, Blow Jobs, I mean, Licking, M/M, May the gods bless Daveed Diggs for all of his days, Whipped Cream, Who wouldn't lick those abs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Alex's birthday and the one thing he really wants is to taste Thomas. </p>
<p>(Or, the one that's total fanservice because wouldn't we <i>all</i> like to lick whipped cream off that body?)</p>
<p>Senses Series | <b>Sense</b>: <i>taste</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still a little bit of your taste in my mouth

Thomas’s voice is strained and low when he mutters, “If you get this on the couch, Alexander, I’m going to kill you.”

Alex just smirks, feels the smugness in it and doesn’t care, says back, “Is the couch _really_ what you care about right now?”

He feels Thomas’s thighs tremble under him as he lets his fingertips dance along Thomas’s cheek, down along his neck, across his shoulder. Thomas huffs out a soft breath. “Yes, because this was a very expen --” he begins, but that’s all Alex allows him before he interrupts him with the can again, a loud, utterly unmistakable sound silencing him as Alex covers the side of his neck with a third trail of whipped cream. Or maybe a fourth. He’s lost count now.

“Hmm, would you look at that. I _am_ an artist, aren’t I?”

He tangles the fingers of his free hand into Thomas’s hair, tugs his head to one side, and leans up from his lap and into him. He swipes the tip of his tongue through the cream, licking along Thomas’s neck with enthusiasm while he makes sounds Alex might once upon a time have used as blackmail. The cream is obnoxiously sweet, all sugar in his mouth, but Alex doesn’t mind. He licks away every last drop, trails his tongue along Thomas’s collarbone, nips with his teeth.

Thomas is panting, but Alex gives him no respite. He gives the can a quick shake and starts decorating Thomas’s chest, a swirl here, a drop there, like some perverted version of a Van Gogh. His tongue finds a cream-covered nipple, sucks until the sweetness is gone and Thomas is whining, bucking his hips up against Alex’s ass, bare skin against flannel.

He’s hard, Alex can feel it, and he relishes the chance to have this much control over Thomas, to have him squirming and needy and fighting what is very clearly a strong desire to beg for more. He licks Thomas clean again, and drops the can next to them, intentionally leaving it on the couch. This time, Thomas brooks no argument; the expensive fabric has already been forgotten, and Alex prides himself on the fact that he can make Thomas Jefferson lose sight of the steepness of a price tag.

But it’s always been that way, and Alex knows it. He’s fairly sure that Thomas was born stressed out about something, many things, and Thomas has told Alex frequently that before he came along, he had no reasonable means of relaxing, of calming his mind. At least, nothing that didn’t involve certain vices in excess. Nevertheless, Alex quite enjoys the fact that Thomas gives in to him and loses himself in him so easily.

It’s the reason he’s giving so much to Thomas right now, even though it’s his own birthday. Despite all evidence to the contrary, oftentimes, giving something is getting something back for Alex. He thinks there’d be some raised eyebrows if people knew how often he gets on his knees for Thomas Jefferson, but Alex likes the way that with one swipe of his tongue, he can make Thomas melt, make him go weak-boned and slack-jawed with something that Alex likes to think is awe. Thomas won’t say it, perhaps at risk of it going to Alex’s head (and it would), but when Thomas gives him those lust-clouded eyes, Alex can’t help but be proud of himself.

Alex goes to his knees now, slides off the couch and onto the floor, nudges Thomas’s legs apart. He lets his fingertips tease along the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thighs until Thomas is shivering, looking down at him with a plea on his lips, his hands coming down to pull Alex’s along, higher, higher…  
  
“ _Christ_ ,” Thomas whines, back arching when Alex brushes his fingers along the underside of his cock, just barely touching, enough for sensation but no real feeling.

“Should’ve wrapped you up in a bow, all pretty for my birthday,” Alex laments, swiping his thumb over the tip of Thomas’s cock, then licking a droplet of precome off his own skin. He hums softly. “Same gift every year, but it does seem to get better and better. Don’t you think?” He winks up at Thomas, leans in and lets his breath ghost along his thighs, his cock.

“ _Please_ ,” Thomas whispers.

Alex doesn’t make him wait any longer. He takes up the can again and, grinning like the devil, starts spreading whipped cream along the length of him, before swallowing him down like it’s nothing. It’s all quiet for a moment, just a moment, and then Thomas groans, hips rocking up and away from the couch. Alex’s mouth is full, his _throat_ , and damn it if listening to Thomas all-out _whimper_ doesn’t tempt his hand to roam between his own legs. But he resists, keeps his hands on Thomas’s thighs, focuses on Thomas and the way that his hips tremble with the effort not to let go and just fuck Alex’s mouth.

Thomas’s own hands find their way into Alex’s hair, tugging it loose from its band and threading through the strands. He tugs firmly, gently, and Alex looks up at him, mouth full of him, spies that hazy look in his eyes that somehow blazes like fire at the same time. He moans now, too, gasping as he pulls up and almost all the way off until he’s just sucking at the head, flicking his tongue until Thomas is cursing his name, damn near singing, a song of which the only refrain is “ _more_.” So Alex gives him more.

Alex loves the way he tastes. He’s salty-sweet now, and the taste of him is actually sublime, like the kind of five-star dish people rave about to their friends. Not that Alex has ever sang the praises of Thomas’s cock to anybody (okay, Lafayette is his best friend and that doesn’t count), but he’s tempted when he’s down on his knees like this to tell the whole damn world that there’s not a lot he likes that’s better than this.

He grips the base of Thomas’s cock, licks all the way up the underside, then swallows him back down, lips stretched wide around the thickness of him. He knows he could come just like this, the taste of Thomas across his tongue, taking him to the back of his throat.

“You’re perfect,” Thomas moans abruptly, and that’s Alex’s cue that he’s getting close, when he starts muttering little praises like those daily affirmations he finds all over Facebook and Instagram. Any other day, he’s _an annoying little shit_ , or _lazyass who won’t take out the trash_ , but right now (and perhaps it’s a curious thing that these compliments come only when he can’t talk), he’s _perfect_ , _so good, please, beautiful, I love you._

Thomas’s cock throbs in Alex’s hand, in his mouth, and he’s hanging just over the edge. This, too, is a point of pride, that it’s barely been an hour since Alex had found the can of whipped cream while complaining that he had to clean out the fridge on his birthday, and Thomas is already seconds away. Seconds, then half of one, and then he’s tightening his fists in Alex’s hair and coming down his throat, crying out his name over the soft crackling of the fake fireplace, loud enough that maybe their neighbours can hear. Alex almost hopes they can, is just cocky enough to wonder if they’ll imagine what they’re missing when they hear Thomas moan like this.

Alex swallows down every drop of him, hot and lush and so damn good. He pulls away then, rests his head against Thomas’s thigh, listens to him breathing hard and fast and shallow, hands slowly unclenching from the locks of his hair. His hair falls along his shoulders, messy and twisted and screaming of sex. Alex meets his eyes and grins.

“Not a drop of anything on the couch,” he assures Thomas, who rolls his eyes.

“You’d consider that a dreadful waste, I’m sure,” Thomas drawls, still panting.

“It would be, I promise you that.”

Thomas just closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the couch, hand absently combing through Alex’s hair. “Happy birthday. Can’t believe this is really the treat you wanted on _your_ day, you know.”  
  
Alex smiles, presses his lips to the inside of Thomas’s thigh, traces his fingers along the soft skin there again. “Ahh. But who said I was done?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Damien Rice's "Cannonball." Oh my god, why did I pick one of the saddest songs pretty much ever for the title of this? ...Basically because I love that song and I remembered that lyric is the first line but I'm the worst.


End file.
